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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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MWCMNI 



COMMON MEN AND WOMEN 



THE CONTEMPORARY SERIES 

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME 

Laodice and DanaE Play in Verse 

By Gordon Bottomley 

Images — Old and New Poems 

By Richard Aldington 

The English Tongue and Other Poems 
By Lewis Worthington Smith 

Five Men and Pompey Dramatic Portraits 
By Stephen Vincent Benet 

Horizons Poems 

By Robert Alden Sanborn 

The Tragedy A Fantasy in Verse 

By Gilbert Moyle 

Common Men and Women Rhythmus 

By Harold W. Gammans 



COMMON MEN AND 
WOMEN 



BY 

HAROLD W. GAMMANS 

It 




Boston 

The Four Seas Company 

1917 









Copyright, 1917, by 
The Four Seas Company 



THE FOUR SEAS PRESS 
BOSTON MASS. U. S. A. 



MAR 22 1918 
©CU494278 



w 

9 

1 



TO MY FATHER 



Parts of the Preface and of the Rhythmus have ap- 
peared in The Poetry Review and The Poetry Journal. 



CONTENTS 

PREFACE 7 

AMBITION 25 

THE CORNER STORE 26 

TWO SURPLICES 29 

SAVING A NICKEL 30 

THE PLAID SHIRT 32 

THE STREET-CLEANER 33 

JERRY SMILED 34 

THE NOTICE IN THE PAPER 35 

I WONDER WHAT THEY ENVY 40 

MASKED LADY! HA ! HA ! 42 
OUT OF THE WHOLE MAN I SEEK THE WHOLE SOUL 44 

LADY OCEAN 50 

ON THE SAND SI 

AUTUMN 52 

AS I STEP TO THE PORCH 54 

HANDKERCHIEF 55 

A JANUARY RAIN 57 

BROWNING ENTERS 58 



PREFACE 

I find a tendency to discount the poems of Matthew 
Arnold and other poets for the poems which they have 
not put into formal metre and to apologize for this fact 
rather than accept it. It seems to me that prose writers 
like Carlyle and Abraham Lincoln, Dickens and 
Thackeray, have rather been at fault for not offering 
certain portions of their work as poems rather than 
prose or, at least, as "not prose/' For some time I 
have felt that there was a form of speaking and writing 
which could hardly be called either prose or verse, yet 
it has kept to one of these names because none has been 
venturesome enough to make a new classification of 
the general divisions of speaking and writing. 

We freely admit that there is poetry in the very best 
passages in any author and we also say that many ill- 
defined and irregular rhythms which have been offered 
as a sort of verse are poetical. Both of these are 
apparently nearer in our feelings for them to poetry 
than to prose. They have not the finish of art, exact 
metre. Let us make bold at once and say that there 
is a third form of speaking and writing which is not 
poetry and which is not prose, but which is beautiful 
in a peculiar way or, at least, in a way which we have 
little considered because we have been dumping it into 
a mass of our prejudices under an entirely false name 

m 



and it has not fitted well there. A word which would 
seem to fit this third form of speech and writing is 
"rhythmus," but no doubt a much better might be 
selected; "logorhythm" came to me as the first name. 

"Logo rhythm" defines itself fairly well as the rhy- 
thm of words, but as it is so similar to the mathematical 
term that it would cause confusion in the minds of 
many, I decided on the simpler term. I would be glad 
for a better name. The difference which I find be- 
tween prose and "rhythmus" is its marked tendency 
toward rhythm of a fair degree of regularity, and the 
difference between poetry and "rhythmus" is quite the 
opposite, its rhythm is less apparent and hardly sought 
for. 

What one person feels about his writing may or may 
not be true. It would seem to rest largely on the value 
of that person's writing as literature, so what I say of 
myself in this connection may be of very little value, 
but I do know that I feel that I am writing something 
quite distinct from either prose or verse w r hen I am 
writing what I call "rhythmus." Considering the mat- 
ter subjectively, as is most necessary when one puts 
forward a new theory of any sort unless he wishes to 
be entirely impractical, I would like to say that I find 
"rhythmus" the highest form of one's natural expres- 
sion. You feel something a little akin to occult balance 
in painting, but you are not as conscious as the painter. 
The ordinary methods of art are not consciously em- 
ployed as in verse and it is the lack of this art, the 
writing without thought of any art, that may produce 

[8] 



"rhythmus." I cannot make the term narrower, and 
prose and verse have long been used with such breadth 
that one is hardly to be condemned for using a new 
term thus broadly. 

I feel that many works of literature were probably 
once "rhythmus," which are now prose, and that many 
early works of literature which were pure rhythmus in 
their genesis have come to us as verse, particularly the 
great poems of races like the Homeric poems. I feel 
that these poems have been treated by art and probably 
by several groups of artists and so have gradually be- 
come verse, although they were first "rhythmus. " The 
writers of the Old Testament frequently used rhyth- 
mus and have long been called poets when they em- 
ployed this form of language. Whitman, I think, 
wrote "rhythmus'' part of the time and prose part of 
the time. I feel that several of Browning's poems, like 
Sordello, would be much better if they had been in 
"rhythmus" instead of verse, and Browning's own 
statements about his writings of verse would seem to 
lead us to some such conclusion. He could not 
sincerely polish and employ the direct means of verse- 
art as some of his writing seems to turn toward the 
highest form of natural expression rather than the 
form of artistic expression. 

Sincerity to thought, to the exact thought, can be 
put into "rhythrmus" as can rarely be done in verse, 
unless it be with very short bits of verse which bubble 
from our spirits at times when they breathe the higher 
ether of divine inspiration. It is hard to see how a 

[9] 



poet who is sincere can fail to write in "rythmus" 
at times and feel that he should not make over or fit his 
"rhythmus" into some form of verse. 

In most languages we do have a form of metrical 
expression into which that language seems to run easily 
and at times almost without effort. In English, blank 
verse seems to meet these requirements at times, so 
"rhythmus" has a tendency toward certain sorts of 
blank verse, particularly that of Shakespeare. Those 
who look for verse in "rhythmus" are inclined to print 
out series of lines in Arnold, Whitman, and others, 
which may be slightly rearranged and made into an 
irregular or even fairly regular sort of blank verse. 
This is undoubtedly a mistake with such a writer as 
Arnold, for, if he had felt that he was writing blank 
verse, he would have arranged his verses in this way, 
as he is a writer on whom we can place few accusations 
as to his ability and sincerity in recording his poetry. 

I have dared to define "rhythmus" as the highest 
form of natural expression. By doing this I have thus 
placed it as a form of writing which must be superior; 
verse may be poor, ordinary prose is generally poor, 
"rhythmus" cannot be poor. It is largely its superior 
literary quality which raises it above prose. I seem to 
berate the best prose writers by giving this limit, but I 
have already noted the fact that I think they come to 
"rhythmus" in their best passages. As to their prose, 
which is of undoubted literary worth and which is not 
"rhythmus," I admit its possible superiority as a part of 
a large piece of writing, but if its various parts be 

[10] 



considered separately they are not what I find the 
highest natural literary expression, unless they rise 
into "rhythmus." 

This statement must not be taken as expressing 
absolute truth, but only like most generalizations as 
expressing a fair amount of truth. 

Vers libre has been so badly used as a term that it 
may seem useless to try to refer to it definitely. It has 
been applied to that which is obviously verse or prose : 
a carefully studied and executed form for some poets, 
for weak writers an excuse to palm off something which 
they hoped the name might cover and which they knew 
no other name would cover. We hear the remark fre- 
quently from those who ought to have better judgment, 
"I guess I'll try my hand at vers libre. I always used 
to have so much trouble with rhymes and metres, but 
in this there is nothing to bother about/' 

The term vers libre has been the one, however, which 
has been applied to that which is neither prose nor verse 
— as well for that which was either prose or verse, — for 
several generations in Italy and France and from the 
time Whitman gave us his first "Leaves" in this coun- 
try. To be sure w T e have not ventured to speak much 
about poems by American writers in vers libre until 
quite recently, but it is only recently that we have had 
much serious comment on our contemporaries. Poetry 
in our busy, bustling, seemingly materialistic times has 
awakened us with such a jolt that we are still rubbing 
our eyes and asking ourselves if we are really awake 
in the midst of real poets : it is natural that critics 

in] 



should take foreign terms which have little meaning in 
other languages and use them with less significance. 

I have said that we will have no real freedom in us- 
ing a form of writing which is neither prose nor verse 
till we emancipate it in truth, in name, and in theory 
from prose and verse. Can verse which is not within the 
limits of any definite verse scheme be verse? This 
question is constantly asked and will continue to be 
asked while we call the third form of writing any sort 
of verse. Can prose which possesses a movement 
which is not that of prose be prose? Why then make 
it a source of argument rather than of inspiration by 
calling the third form a kind of verse when it is no 
kind of verse or a kind of prose when it is not and 
never could be any kind of prose? Are we so bound 
that we can admit no new elements, no new substances 
except in the realm of the sciences only? 

Rhythmus is far from being a common form of 
writing, a form for the lazy or the indifferent. Yet 
it is a natural form and seems to come spontaneously 
from the heart of the writer. I have already empha- 
sized the naturalness of rhythmus, but it is likely that 
I will feel forced to reemphasize it again and again. It 
is not concerned with art as are both a large portion of 
verse and most of what is commonly called poetic 
prose ; it does not seek beauty ; it does not seek delib- 
erately with any particular form or canons in mind. It 
is; it comes forth in speech; it must express itself; it 
tells the truth which may be beautiful or not in every 
cadence. Truth ! It is often the tide from a planet 

[12] 



so far away that it takes many years before force is 
given for it to rush forth in waves of expression and 
the waves are irregular, beaten by storm, but they 
give an irrepressible impact. A thought, an emotion, 
an incident, a scene, grip us so that we can find no 
words to give them for a long time ; we let them grow 
for years within us, five, ten, fifteen years, maybe much 
longer, the natural process of growth goes on : so when 
the blossom of our thought bursts, it is a blossom of 
nature and about all we can honestly say of it is, "It 
has blossomed; I let it come forth honestly." 

The first piece of writing in which I was conscious 
of rhythmus while writing it was done in odd minutes ; 
the five or six hours which its composition demanded 
were distributed over more days. The content of the 
"rhythmus" was of thoughts which I had let grow in 
my mind and heart for years. I have found most of 
the other pieces which I have composed in rhythmus 
have had similar gradual deep development, the desire 
and hope that expression will come to us holding us 
perhaps for years before the words appear and then 
they have this form which should not be rejected. 

The second selection which I began in rhythmus 
was The Triumph of the Dark Tower. I began to 
write without a thought of Browning or Childe Roland, 
but: 

"In they came those people of importance " 
and I let them have what part of the poem they wished. 
The combination of verse and rhythmus appears in this 
poem and may interest some as to the difference be- 

[13] 



tween the two in one instance and as to the possible 
value which the suggestion I made about Rhythmus 
probably being a form which would have benefited 
Browning's poetry since verse was often not a clear 
carrier of his thought. I do not mean in this poem to 
suggest that my rhythmus be compared with his verse, 
but that his verse be transcribed by any interested into 
a more natural expression with the truth of Browning's 
thought clearly in mind.* 

I wish that poets of real worth would tell us sincere- 
ly whether they feel that one is justified in saying that 
there is a need for a term to express what I have tried 
to offer in my term "rhythmus." Their opinion and 
not mine would be the one of undoubted value. If 
several of them feel as I that they are writing some- 
thing quite different from either prose or verse at 
times, and that it is a product of their highest natural 
expression, we may get a real principle which will 
emancipate a form of literature which has previously 
been imprisoned and mistreated and which we need to 
show us man and God in its way. 

Mr. Saintsbury, in speaking of the Strayed Reveller 
volume, shows us quite clearly the bonds in which 
"rhythmus" must be held while it is classed as verse. 
"The title poem," he says, "though it should have 
pleased even a severe judge, might have aroused doubts 
in an amiable one. In the first place, its rhymelessness 



*I am doubtful whether much that I offer as rhyth- 
mus is worthy of the name. 

[14] 



is a caprice, a will-worship. Except blank verse, every 
rhymeless metre in English has on it the curse of the 
tour de force, of the acrobatic. Campion and Collins, 
Southey and Shelley, have done great things in it ; but 
neither Rose-checked Laura nor Evening, neither the 
great things in Thalaba nor the great things in Queen 
Mob, can escape the charge of being caprices. And 
caprice, as some have held, is the eternal enemy of art." 
I do not believe that "rhythmus" is caprice, but rather 
sincerity, a form in which good and beautiful poetic 
thoughts come to a man, who knows he would do ill 
to use further art with them, feeling that they are not 
a proper subject for art. 

The critic continues, "But the caprice of the Strayed 
Reveller does not cease with its rhymelessness. The 
rhythm and the line-division are also studiously odd, 
unnatural, paradoxical. Except for the 'poetic dic- 
tion' of putting 'Goddess' after 'Circe* instead of 
before it, the first stave is merely a prose sentence of 
strictly prosaic, though not inharmonious, rhythm. But 
in this stave there is one instance of the strangest 
peculiarity, and what seems to some the worst fault of 
the piece, the profusion of broken-up decasyllabics, 
which sometimes suggest a very 'corrupt* manuscript, 
or a passage of that singular stuff in the Caroline dra- 
matists which is neither blank verse, nor any other, nor 
prose. Here are a few out of many instances : 
'Is it then, evening 
So soon? [I see the night-dews 
Clustered in thick beads] dim/ etc. 

[15] 



[ 'When the white dawn first 
Through the rough fir-pranks/ 

[ 'Thanks, gracious One ! 
Ah ! the sweet fumes again.' ] 
One could treble these, indeed in one instance (the 
sketch of the Indian), the entire stanza of eleven lines, 
by the insertion of one 'and* only, becomes a smooth 
blank-verse piece of seven, two of which are indeed 
hemistichs, and three 'weak-ended/ but only as are 
frequent in Shakespeare : 

'They see the Indian drifting, knife in hand, 
His frail boat moored to a floating isle, thick-mat- 
ted 
With large-leaved {and) low-creeping melon- 
plants 
And the dark cucumber. 
He reaps and stows them, drifting, drifting: 

round him, 
Round his green harvest-plot, flow the cool lake- 
waves, 
The mountains ring them/ " 
I do not think that "rhythmus" is a dumping ground 
for poor verse, which fails as either prose or verse, but 
I do think that it is quite necessary to consider a third 
form of literature when we find critics of merit admit- 
ting that good writers, even great writers, employ that 
which is "neither blank verse, nor any other, nor 
prose." 

Almost every statement which Mr. Saintsbury makes 

[16] 



about the form of the Strayed Reveller seems to me 
unsound because "rhythmus" cannot be judged by the 
standard of ordinary verse. Considered from the 
standpoint of "rhythmus," the rhythm and line-division 
is natural, sincere, and it has not the art of verse. If 
it had that art it would be verse. There are sentences 
and stanzas which are almost prose, and which are 
almost verse, as Mr. Saintbury shows, but they are 
"rhythmus" with no almost placed before it. As I 
noted before, our language has a natural trend toward 
blank verse, so it is quite natural that "rhythmus" 
should often approach it, but I feel that it is a mistake 
to try to find it in "rhythmus ;" rather should the gen- 
eral harmony be heard and the natural beauty speak 
to us boldly and sincerely. 

The term "rhythmus" loosens us from both prose and 
verse. It is neither prose nor free verse. It has 
not the lack or avoidance of rhythm of prose, nor has 
it the artistic rhythm and finish of verse, but it has a 
rhythm which we know and feel should be in this form. 

There is generally less direct action of the will in 
choosing to write rhythmus than in writing prose or 
verse. It is not because we wish to write in it, or plan to 
write in this form, or because our first lines come to us 
in a certain cadence but because we must write in this 
way. A whole piece may be written in "rhythmus," al- 
though I doubt whether a very long poem like Whit- 
man's "Song of Myself" or one of Shakespeare's plays 
would not at times go into either verse or prose; a 
writer of verse may start out in an entirely regular 

[17] 



metre and suddenly come upon something vital in 
which the truth is so strong that it inhibits all thoughts 
save the truth itself and he writes perforce in "rhyth- 
mus" naturally and does not feel that it would be right 
to alter this portion of his work by art, as its essence 
is of nature and not of art. 

Portions of only two scenes in Macbeth are not in 
verse, the third scene in the second act and the sleep- 
walking scene. With the strongest kind of poetic vigor 
impelling this drama, why should these scenes not be in 
verse? The portions referred to are, of course, reg- 
ularly written as prose and considered as prose. It is 
possible that portions of these passages written as pro e 
are not prose and not verse or "rhythmus" and that sin- 
cerity made Shakespeare write in this form. Test it: 

Here's a knocking, indeed ! 
If a man were porter of hell-gate, 
He would have old turning the key. — 
Knock, knock, knock! 
Who's there, i' the name of Beelzebub? 
Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expect- 
ation of plenty: 
Come in time ; 

Have napkins enough about you ; 
Here you'll sweat for't. 
Knock, knock! 

Who's there, in the other devil's name ! — 
'Faith, here's an equivocator, 
That could swear in both the scales 
[18] 



Against cither scale ; 

Who committed treason enough for God's sake, 

Yet could not equivocate to heaven : 

O, come in, equivocator. — 

Knock, knock, knock!* 

It is clear that this is not verse, yet there is a certain 
poetic rhythm ; it is not quite prose ; an almost regular 
rhythm swings fairly often naturally into the groups 
of words which I have written as lines, — the line ar- 
rangement is merely suggestive, — and there is almost 
a prose movement in other lines, yet there is a form 
almost as regular as Arnold's Strayed Reveller. "Rhy- 
thmus" in this passage might be clearer to some if com- 
pared with the prose speeches of Sir Toby on the one 
hand, and the verse boastings of such a character as 
Pistol on the other. It is interesting to note in the pas- 
sage quoted the stanzaic effect which the repetitions of 
the word ''knock" give. One of the reasons for this 
speech possibly going into "rhythmus" aside from the 
great poetic vigor of the whole work is the intoxicated 
«swaying of the drunken porter. 

"Rhythmus" in Shakespeare seems to come in defi- 
ance of art at the clear call of nature. If so, this goes 
a good ways towards proving that above all "rhythmus" 
is not an affectation in writing but a most natural form 
compelled by the thought when the mind and spirit 
must speak very directly. Our attitude must not be, 



♦Maginn, of course, reduced these lines to a sort of 
blank verse as Saintsbury did in the Strayed Reveller. 

[19] 



"Here is a new form in which we may write and sit 
down with deliberate purpose to write 'rhythmus' be- 
cause we think it easy or unique." The freedom which 
we have is not to refuse it when it comes compellingly 
either when we begin to write or when we are in the 
midst of either prose or verse and find that just what 
we must say goes beyond the limits of either prose or 
verse. 

When our thoughts thus demand expression in "rhy- 
thmus" we have the right to use it as long as the 
truth demands. It is not perhaps greater than the 
forms of writing in which art may play a larger part. 
(We do not wish to enter upon the question of art ver- 
sus nature; we find them both great forces.) Its con- 
tent is likely to be more moral than abstractly ethical 
or aesthetic. As it is of nature rather than art ; it may 
have a peculiar beauty but it must have truth. 

"Rhythmus" does not allow us greater freedom than 
any form of prose in its cadences and repetitions and we 
do not have to forbid them, nor do we have to force 
them into an approximate uniformity with the art of 
verse. We may or not be conscious that we are work- 
ing in the third form at the time of composition, al- 
though I think we are usually in a mood which we rec- 
ognize as quite different from that which holds us in 
other writing. When it comes to us in the midst of 
prose or verse, far from being a sign of weakness, it is 
the call of a different voice. 

Is it not worth thoughtful consideration as to what 
the thing is "which is not blank verse, nor any other, 

[20] 



nor prose," but which is good and natural and sincere, 
and which has persisted for many centuries and which 
was used in the nineteenth by a large number of ex- 
cellent writers. It may open "a passage to India" for 
poets. 

h. w. G. 



[21] 



THE COVER DESIGN IS BY THE AUTHOR 



COMMON MEN AND WOMEN 



AMBITION 

Fifteen years of work, 
Hard work, 
Without result! 

There's a book of verse 
Of fluttering hopes 
To answer. 

To-day a sober learned friend said, 
"Young man, you need the check-rein 
Rather than the spur." 

He is a gentleman, 

Meant only kindness. 

I held myself till we parted. 

Alone, I laughed, 

"I need the check-rein, 

Checked with work, poverty, disease for fifteen years ! 

"Thank God, I need it, 
And dash fearless, free, 
Unheard but felt, a man, myself." 

It's good to fail and fail. 
You knew it, 
Stevenson. 

Fail? 

Work. 

Fail! 

[25] 



THE CORNER STORE 

Swiftly I ride 

On the rattling 

Steel and concrete cars 

Of the Elevated, 

Heedless of sunlight 

Cut from thousand shops and houses, — 

A train like this 

Of seven cars 

Passes every fifty seconds. 

I am at the station. 

I walk back 

To the corner store 

With its two big windows, 

Its eight good counters. 

I sit 

By the high iron stove, — 

The izing-glass in its four doors 

Is the very same. 

Mother is here with me, 

Measuring cloth, ribbon, laces, 

Counting buttons, matching silk, 

Guessing sizes from those 

Who say they want 

Stockings for a boy. 

How large is he? 

Oh ! big, — a big boy. 

How old? 

Sure, some twenty-odd. 

[26] 



Mother, what do you measure, — 

Cloth, ribbon, laces? 

What are the tears 

On your sweet face? 

The cloth is measured, cut, folded, wrapped, 

And more tears fill your eyes, — 

You are not measuring now, 

You are listening with priceless sympathy. 

A pause in the business 

Lets you sit near the stove ; 

A mending-basket 

High with stockings is at hand, — 

This is your rest, 

You are resting 

For you sing 

And now and then smile. 

At last 'tis time to close, — 
You have been here, dear, 
From eight this morning 
And nine is the closing hour 
Every night but two, — 
Some fellow-tradesmen 
Have collected 
About the iron-stove. 
You have a story, 
A bit of news, 
A willingness to listen, too. 
It has passed nine, 

[27] 



Still all remain. 

You counted buttons, change did I say? 

But oh ! the things you did not count ! 

For thirty years you worked 

In that same corner-store, 

Helping your husband, 

Waiting on the little world about you, 

Keeping home 

And children. 

Oh mother! you knew God, 
The God who makes 
The measuring of cloth, 
The counting out of buttons, 
A happy work. 

Oh mother! you knew Christ: 
You were the servant of all. 

I know in heaven 

God has a corner store, — 

What you count and measure 

I cannot tell; 

Have you a mending-basket 

For spare hours 

Over which you sing and smile? 

Oh ! mend my every sin and woe ! 

I know I am still thy child. 

[28] 



TWO SURPLICES 

I believe a frail nun long ago 
Far from the world 
Lavished hours and pains 
On that surplice. 

It is beautiful ; 

We could not make it now. 

I know three women made a surplice : 
The first, a woman in a store 
Between sales whipped the seams ; 
The second bed-ridden embroidered 
Passion vine and grapes ; 
The third, just a body of the home, 
Dipped it in pale starch and water 
And tempered the iron exact. 

It is beautiful; 

They could not make it then. 



l*9l 



SAVING A NICKEL 

A walk of a mile or two 
Would save five cents. 

I walked. 

I met a man, 

"Was this the Post-Road?" 

"Yes." I walked with him 
And his beard of a week. 

He told me of four hundred miles 

From a fake job in a camp. 

He hadn't jumped trains, 

For three months in a jail was worse than the road* 

The night before he was in a model town, 

"A sure great place, — 

Clean bed, shower-bath, 

Washed out my socks 

And they dried on the steam pipes over night. 

"Soup and bread last night, 

This morning, two big sandwiches and coffee, a bowl- 
ful." 

He neither swore nor growled; 
His voice was clear. 

[30] 



He neither asked nor hinted for money. 

He could get work at his trade if he had clean clothes, 

His brother lived some forty miles away 

Who could furnish these. 

I gave him a quarter 

Though I was walking to save five cents. 



[3i] 



THE PLAID SHIRT 

It was plaid, — 

Poppy red, 

Green of evergreen in mid-day sun, 

Fine black lines, broad white stripes. 

I wore the shirt three days 
And found it was a mirror. 

You did not see yourself in it, 



A good-natured laugh 

Showed one friend color-blind; 

Wide-open eye and mouth, another ignorant; 

A sneer and titter, another was no friend 

Of mine nor himself nor the world. 

There was one friend that day, — 
You know the kind of friend, — 
Who hardly noticed the shirt 
As he talked and walked with me. 

The plaid shirt did all this 
Ami didn't show the dirt besides. 



[32] 



THE STREET-CLEANER 

I am the street-cleaner. 
I serve. 

Strong men don't swear, 
Nor old women fall, 
Because I work, — 
Some day I'll save a soul, 
My own, at least. 

My sweet-heart threatened never to walk with me 

again, 
If I kept kicking bits of orange peel 
To safe gutters, 
And picking fading flowers 
From hard side-walks 
To lay them in warm grass. 

She walks with me still, 
So does Saint Francis. 



[331 



JERRY SMILED 

I helped her over the hill, — 

I did not want to quite, — 

But she was old 

And no one knew her. 

Many saw me with her and smiled. 

But Jerry walked by 

And gave my hand a good grip ; 

"One of the least of these," 

He whispered word greater than deed 

And smiled ; I say, he smiled. 



(34] 



THE NOTICE IN THE PAPER 

Thank you for the paper 

With the notice marked, 

Though it said little, 

Of Mrs. Barlow. 

It gave the date for her birth, 

And marriage, and death, 

It named her relatives, 

It said she was a member of Trinity. 

The last fact was truth ; 

If you knew 

The Methodists of Boston 

You would know why I call this truth. 



She was in middle life, 

Forty or forty-five, 

When the great call came to her. 

Shut your eyes and ears 

And heart ; 

You may boast 

No call of God 

Has ever come to you. 



She made this boast, — 
A living boast: 
For many a year, 
She dressed, and smiled, 
And ate, and laughed. 

(351 



I spoke of one day 

And of a call. 

You should have heard her speak of it 

With sweet simplicity. 

Her bones were turning to chalk, 
She could still move her hand, 
Though the use of the fingers 
Separately 
Was gone. 

Her head was slightly bent, 
But her voice was fresh and calm, 
Her thoughts were full of life 
As she told me, 

"I was alone on my bed: — 

I had been sick: — 

I knew my sin 

Without instruction or a Bible in the room. 

I said I would serve God 

If he would save me from sin. 

I went to church 
When I recovered, 
To Trinity 
And joined it." 

Thus the beginning; 
I knew the rest. 

136] 



Just as a disciple 

When Christ walked the earth, 

She sought the body 

That needed food 

And fed it daily ; 

No less she sought the soul 

That needed light, 

And brought it to the light she knew. 

She spoke of her faith 
With surety guileless : 
When she came to God, 
She gave all. 

The clear grey eye, 

The calm sweet lips, 

Head erect, strong carriage,— 

You never thought an ill 

Could come to her. 

No ill ever came to her, 

Though her fingers 

Were bent almost to the palms, 

And her head sunk lower, 

And her back doubled, 

Through fourteen years 

Of triumph. 

She let the healers come to her. 

She doubted not the power of God to haal, 

[37] 



She doubted not the power of God 
Whatever was her state, 
And what he willed was well* 

We went to her for health ; 

We went to her for joy; 

We went to her for sympathy ; 

They let me see her 

Near the end of the fourteen years; 

They told me that each day she lived 

Was a miracle to science. 

It had been for years. 

She was in middle life, 
Forty or forty-five, 
Her soul divinely clear, 
How just, how good 
God's way appeared 
In every part. 
She knew it better now 
Than ever before, 
And she was very happy. 

And she told me, — 

You know, too, and believe, — 

One night she heard, — 

It was New Year's Eve, — 

The song of the choir unseen, 

Which few while still in the flesh 

[38] 



Have ever heard, 

The song divinely sweet and strong 

Of heaven's choir. 

She heard it ; that is all, — 

And many months before the last. 

The notice says she died ; 

It mentions relatives and funeral 

And flowers 

That mean nothing 

As I said. 

One truth I see : 

She belonged to Trinity. 

Yes, to that worthy company, 

And to the Trinity, 

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 

If the editor but knew. 



f39] 



I WONDER WHAT THEY ENVY 

I wonder what they envy, dear, 

I wonder why they envy. 

Is it the rough wooden table 

Beside the kitchen-stove 

Just big enough for us and the babies 

To eat from with the help of the stove 

As space for a dish or two? 

Perhaps it is the dishes they envy, — 

The three or four white plates with the gold band 

That were my grandmother's, 

Or the three cups with broken handles: — 

Did the baby break one to-day 

And are there only two? 



Perhaps they think we're lazy, dear, 

For you do nothing all day long 

But tend to sewing, mending, cooking 

For the babies and me, 

Wash, iron, scrub, clean, 

With the babies' little needs all the while. 

And I work eight hours, 

Study and write for recreation, 

Buy the food, hunt for bargains, 

Keep up fires, sift ashes, 

Picking out with care good coals, 

Help a little with the babies, 

Tell them stories, hear their prayers. 

[40] 



Are we too happy in our work? 

Do we sometimes sing? 

Do we ever leap with joy 

At a sweet hope ? 

Our moments have been happy. 

It must be that they are not happy, 

That they never can be happy. 

They want to crush us, dear ; 

They have taken away my work; 

But there is other work. 

I pity them. They will never be happy: 

They can only envy. 



[41] 



MASKED LADY! HA! HA! 
She taps on the plate-glass 
With her tiny pincers. — 
She is masked. 
A masked lady ! ha ! ha ! 
Advertising the almost-diamond, 
The Mexican topaz; 
And a Mexican five-dollar bill 
From Chihuahua 
Goes with each. 

One stops and another and another, — 
That's the way of the crowd. 
She starts the demonstration 
Pointing to a card, 
"The fire test." 

The almost-gem 

In the tiny pincers 

Cuts the flame 

With the calmness of Shadrach and the other two. 

She holds it up. 

The glory of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, 

If you can see. 

The card is turned. 
"The water test." 

Dip, topaz! 

Water is good for you. 

l4a] 



Is Jonah wailing or praying? 

He's safe: 

You've stood the test. 

She turns another card, 

"The acid test." 

Paul, Paul, she's speaking of you, 

The great light shone 

For your great test. 

The acid test is good. 

Another card 

Gives prices of the topaz, 

"Step inside if you please 

And buy." 

The pearl of great price may be here. 

Masked lady! ha! ha! 

Turning cards and making tests all day 

And for the evening crowds. 

Do they smile and jeer and seldom buy? 

Masked lady ! I am a man, a worker, 

I see you working. 

Let me buy the jewels you test 

Or test till the crowd shall all see and buy. 



U3l 



OUT OF THE WHOLE MAN I SEEK THE 
WHOLE SOUL 

Out of the whole man I seek my soul, — 

Not a mystical distant abstract part, 

Not an intellect without a heart, 

Not a reason without feeling, 

Not an emotion without passion, 

Not a patriot without country, 

Not an individual without a family, 

Not a man without a mate, 

Not a father without offspring, 

Not a man without a brother, 

Not a man without a friend, 

Not a fanatic without tolerance, — 

Enough, my fellow human-beings, 

I am just as you; 

Know what you are, the whole man, 

Out of the whole man as I seek the whole soul. 

Out of the whole man, God within, God without, 

Love of friends. on this, on all planes, 

Love of brother, — each my brother, — 

Love of father, mother, wife, and children; 

Sense which like the tides of ocean 

Draws me daily upward, truthward, 

Which I name the God-sense, feel a part of me, 

Part essential of me, of every man, — 

Fools disclaim it and few name it, 

Many know that they yet claim it, — 

Universal breath of Hindoo, oversoul of philosopher, 

[44] 



And of common man the power that assailed 

By sophist, trickist, worldist cleverly unanswerable, 

Certain knows the God-sense ocean 

Will enswamp eternally 

The tipping, saucy, tooth-pick barks, 

Polished though they be and brightly painted, 

And he weeping, humbly great the billow, 

"I believe in God ; I know there is a God." 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul, 
Spiritual vision viewing unseen realities universal, 
Seen realities spiritually endowed, 
Which shall make one substance eternal, — 
Naught too great and naught too small for spirit- 
seeing, 
Naught too old and naught too young though ages 

forward, — 
The countless stars and worlds of space, 
The thought of male and female in the seed 
And which shall be very life and man and world 
And many worlds, yes, countless worlds forever. 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul, 

Thoughts written, spoken, and unspoken, 

Of unknown age and priceless worth 

Which my mind finds within itself, I know not, 

Without itself, I know not ; I know it finds them, 

Loves them, holds them, conceives them, and begets 

them: 
Thoughts, God the good all-Father ; 

[ 45 1 



Thoughts, every man my brother; 

Thoughts, the perfect Christ ; 

Thoughts, my life must die in God to live; ft**,***. 

Thoughts, all men live through the love of God; — 

And thoughts unuttered and unspoken, — 

Where one great has lived, why seek his birth-place? 

Why vibrant seems the air still with his life? 

Quote there his deeds, his words, — you find they 

profane 
The templed thoughts there far more real; 
Have you ever known a good man who has worked 
In ways most humble, writ no word 
Nor spoke one that the world would note, — 
Seeks as holy ground his dwelling, kneeling enter, — 
His thoughts ! 

The burning bush of God shall there appear to you, 
You shall see thoughts blazed that will change the 

world, 
You shall tremble, fall before them, 
And shall marvel that you know them, — 
Buddha, Zoroaster, and Confucius 
Are as children prattling over games and playthings 
When compared with the thoughts that you shall know 
Of that good man blessed, unnamed, 
His thoughts transfigured shall make all men good, 
Not a one escape their fire, 
They shall burn him, melt him, love him, 
They shall bring all to God's kingdom. 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul 

U6] 



Impulse that hurls me to God's feet, 

Impulse that throws me before my love, 

Impulse that wrings my friend's dear hand, 

Impulse that sinks me in truth's sea, 

Impulse that runs me from the devil, 

Impulse that tosses life's bubble in the air of death 

That it may wing a life forever. 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul, 

Passion that can suffer sweetly through a life-time, 

That forges for my weak will courage for greatest 

combats, 
That bears me victor over each defeat, 
Because the stronger, surer, they advance me; 
That binds my man nature 
To one woman of the whole world, 
That makes me a wild-beast for wife's, for child's 

protection, 
My wife, my child, or wife or child of brother. 

Out of the whole man, I seek the whole soul, 

Out of the body which I name before the mind — 

Out of the body that needs air, 

That needs its food and rest, 

That works for sustenance, for health, 

For strength, for offspring, for joy, 

Out of the whole man, the artist, poet, 
That listens to his heart-beat, bids the beating 
Put work and thought and sleep in rhythm, 

[47] 



That calls the sheep and lambs in order, names them, 

feeds them, 
That ranges rows of wheat in order perfect, 
That sees a beauty absolute in flower, grass, and clod, 
In youth and maiden pure, in star, 
That hears melody divine in cry of infant, 
Thunder-groaning, and death-rattle. 

Out of the whole man, the learner, the pupil, 
The faculty which can take the thoughts of others, 
That does not seek itself reflected everywhere, 
That brightens at a truth all new to it. 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul, 

Out of the will, I will be perfect, perfect, 

Christ, Savior, it is your commandment. 

Out of intellect, ambition, 

Intellect that thinks on transitory things 

With cunning, wit, and keenness, 

Too often with a false conceit of selfish power, 

Yet knows God as its bound; 

Ambition urging me to seek a life forever 

In memory of men, but wisdom-guided 

Points surely home to God. 

Out of the whole man I seek the whole soul, 

God within, God without, 

Love of friends on this, on all planes, 

Love of brother, each my brother, 

Love of mother, father, wife, and children, 

[48] 



God-sense, greatest of all senses, 

Spiritual vision — thoughts both spoken and unspoken — 

Impulse, passion, body, artist, Christ. 

I find these in me, the whole man. 

Combine, add, further separate who will. 

I simply feel them thus in me. 

With all of them I seek my soul. 

I find my soul and have no doubt. 

You greater men, seek as I out of the whole man 
The whole soul, out of the whole man, 
Not one part of you can prove it, 
Know all for God, feel all, use all. 
You find the soul; there is no doubt. 



[49 1 



LADY OCEAN 

Lady ocean, 

You know it's Sunday afternoon, 

And so this shiny grey-blue gown. 

Glide and glisten in your silk 
And let the lone sea-gull sport 
Lazily graceful on your shoulder. 

I try to leave you, Lady, 
But your low voice 
Makes me linger. 

Now you have lain down 

In your night-robe of dull violet crepe, 

Worn and smooth in great strips. 

Td say you were asleep, 
But your white toes 
Keep gripping at the sand. 



[So] 



ON THE SAND 

I have lain on the sand 

While puss ocean 

Told me her content. 

I have touched rose marble, 

Orange granite, yellow mica, 

Beautiful bits. 

A child asked me the time. 

I let these become part of me 
All in one morning. 



[51] 



AUTUMN 

Autumn — the autumn comes, alas! 
And falling leaves and blood-splashed, 
Leaves blood-red in every vein, 
Yellow leaves with drops of crimson, 
Leaves of bright and new-spilt blood, 
Leaves of blood old, dank, and blackened! 

Blast on blast assault, — 

A thousand leaves so freshly bright 

Dance careless down Golgotha, 

Radiate a moment the Great Light, 

Then tossed and seared 

Await grey burial. 

I pluck one blood-red leaf 

And hold it warmly, 

Cherishing a hope of life, 

Yet knowing it will fade to driest dust; 

Oh God ! to toss him, my brother, 

He but a leaf of the autumn! 

It is not thy^autumn. 

The sad dark trunks are sighing in the night : 
They will be bare so long, 
And many a tree will fall 
So long the frozen winter ; 
The birds perish every one ; 
But wool, white wool 
Must cover blood-leaf of dust. 

[52] 



Hark! the dread forest has a voice! — 

Tis not the whisper of leaves 

For they are covered with the snow. 

A forester has come! 

The gentlest forester of the world. 

His tears melt all the snow. 

Eternal love of God ! Oh ! Christ ! 

Wisdom of fools, away : 

Systems, philosophies, art, science. 

The forest is new : 

To God the single thought of the whole, 

God, life, love! 



[S3] 



AS I STEP TO THE PORCH 
The white wall white-washed 
Shuts off the moon. 
I think of you 
As 1 step to the porch 
From the house. 
I see a patch of grass 
Under poplar branches, 
And the garden fence 
White- washed as the wall of the house 
Which shuts off the moon. 

The moon was never so fair as tonight 

When only the finest rays 

I see upon the grass and poplar leaves 

And garden fence. 

I think you have smiled at the moon 

And thought of me, my love, 

A thousand miles away, 

For the moon loved the earth once, 

And, seeing your smile, it loves again. 

Good-night, sweet light; 
I'll take no step to see your face. 
Good-night, fine spread of light 
Upon the grass and poplar leaves 
And garden fence. 



[54] 



HANDKERCHIEF 

Little waving handkerchief ! 

Tiny square of linen, 

White, 

All white ! 

A whiter hand waves you. 

The train leaves you 

A speck 

Fading 

Quickly. 

Yet I see you clearer 
Mile on mile away. 
You are wet, 
No longer white ; 
The hand is blue, 
Dun indigo 
That grips you. 

I see you a hundred mites away, 

For you are red, 

Ultra red ; 

The hand is purple, 

The color of dry blood. 

A thousand miles 
And a year is gone, 
I see you 

Not white, 

[S5l 



Little waving handkerchief, 

Nor red: 

You are black. 

Nor is the hand white or red, 

It is black, 

The black of charred bone. 

Both are black ! 

Black. 

Lightning of eternity, 
Tell me it shall be white. 



[56] 



A JANUARY RAIN 

Do you know the delight of walking in the rain 
Of January : feeling the cold sharp drops 
Almost pierce as they dart on your cheek? 
Are they the wit of a pert coquette? 

We step brisk and brisker as she kindles 

A glow within. She jeers us with the names 

Of crystal-dropping Phoebus, Aurora 

Of the rainbows as she sees us glow with life. 

"Rain, cold rain, as the body the brain 

You wash ; and will you even wash windows 

Of an inner mind? We see new sights; 

We feel new hopes. We know we shall achieve. 

There runs a horse spattering in mud 
Besplashing us, which gives us a good laugh, 
For we know it will all come off when dry. 
Look at the colors in this rare atmosphere 
Of heavy neutral purples, reds, and browns, 
The sky the dullest blue combed with the black teeth 
of the storm. 

We walk on and on in the January rain, 
Rain of cold vigor, sharp enthusiasm, cutting 

confidence, 
We'll take new zest to our work, 
New determination to our fierce fight, 
The glow within shall make us live and be, 

[57] 



BROWNING ENTERS 

I, a man, a mite of the Solar System, 
Shall yet beget my spirit, a Solar System ; 
A struggle supreme, 
Each moment beating for spirit ! 

The goal ! Childe Roland ! the triumph of the Dark 
Tower. 

Hurricanes shall beat me on Promethean cliff, 

Volcanoes bury me in molten lava, 

Men laugh at me struggling 'mid the tortures; 

I shall be shaken over lands ; 

I shall be the ocean's plaything. 

I thank thee, God, for the hopeful, hopeless, task; 
I praise these for the struggle that greets failure till 

the last: — 
A scornful cynic cripple; the only guide to the road, 
Laughing his skull-like laugh at my advance. — 
Evil may inspire more than degrade, 
And shall inspire for spirit-conquest after countless 

failures. 

This world must appear gorgeously dark 

In my soul's final progress of infinite struggle. — 

For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove ! 

As for grass, it grows as scant as hair 

In leprosy : thin dry blades prick the mud 

hich underneath looks kneaded up with blood. 
I shut my eyes and turn them on my heart 
As a man calls for wine before he fights. 

[58] 



The comrade-heroes of my youth appear, — 
They sought a while the soul as I, 
Then fell to weaker thoughts : 
They fell; they failed. 

A sudden little river crosses my path, 

A snake-like stream of hidden horrors, — 

World shivering, decrying birth and death as misery. 

Glad I am when I reach the other bank. 

Now for a better country. Vain presage ! 
Engines of torture, men warring falsely, vainly; 
And just as far as ever seems the end, 
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought 
To point my step farther. At the thought 
Oh doubt ! black hovering doubt ! 
Thy flight shall guide my hope. 



And, looking up, aware I somehow grow, 
Spite of the dark, the plain has given place 
All round to mountains, greater combats yet! 
Real this time, and ponderous with night. 
How to get from them? 

Burningly it comes on me all at once, 

This is the place ; here, the final fighting, here. 

Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce 

After a life spent training for the sight. 

In the midst lies the tower of awful absymal space. 

[59] 



At least unnoticed I shall fade, I think, but day 
Comes back for that before it leaves; 
The dying sunset kindles through a cleft. 
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lie, 
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, 
"Now stab and end the creature to the heft!" 
The mountain minds of this plane, 
Giants, but never more than shells of dust, 
Jeer me with their reasonings, discoveries ; 
I answer "Soul", with that I fight. 
They close me round leaving one escape, 
The Dark Tower of infinite dark space. 

Beside the tower gleams a horn, 
A Gabriel's trump to call a world, 
The infinite black space is for a star, 
That star thy soul to light, to light ! 
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, 
The breath remaining in that mite of self, 
I take it all and breathe in faith, 
Breathe out in God a solar vast 
Into that Dark Tower of abysmal space. 
I see a deathless nebulous glow 
Fill the Dark Tower, fill the dark space 
From blessed light of new-born soul. 



[60] 



TiRRflR* OF CONGRESS 

mil. 



V 



